Kissing Doorknobs Read online

  “Hey, it’s safer than mixing blood,” said Anna, and we all agreed. Then we lay back down on the floor and picked up our magazines again.

  “Think I could model?” I asked while puckering my lips goofily.

  “If you were thinner,” said Kristin seriously.

  “I’m already thin!” I hollered.

  “Not thin enough to model,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “How come white girls think they have to weigh less to be more?” Keesha asked.

  The three of us white girls shrugged.

  “No wonder you all don’t do as good in math as the boys,” said Keesha, laughing. “Less is not more!”

  Kristin was unconvinced. “Don’t you ever feel unsure … about your opinions, Keesha?”

  “I do,” I volunteered.

  “We know you do!” they said in unison.

  “You’re unsure you’re sitting here!” said Anna.

  We all laughed and kicked each other. Then Keesha looked at Kristin seriously. “I feel unsure sometimes too … but I know one thing for sure …”

  We looked at Keesha, who had paused on purpose to get our attention.

  “I know that no matter what I do with my life … I’m probably gonna do it as a fat woman. And I refuse to feel bad about it, now or then. My mama’s got a beautiful big butt and I’m probably gonna have an even bigger one! And if I do … if I do … I’m gonna honor it as a family tradition!”

  “No matter what I do, people are probably going to think I’m gay because I’m a jock and not interested in makeup or magazines,” said Anna.

  “No matter what I do, people will probably think I’m an airhead because I’m blond and pretty,” said Kristin seriously.

  Keesha rolled on the floor and kicked her feet in the air while imitating Kristin’s voice. “Ohhh! Poor blond beautiful empty-headed me! I’m so mistreated by the world, and it has nothing to do with the stupid-ass things I say about myself like I’m blond and pretty … or the fact that you have to starve yourself in order to feel special and would die in exchange for a magazine cover … I repeat … you’d choose to be dead so that a lot of other people who are alive could look at you and maybe even think you’re pretty…. Now, why would anyone think you’re stupid?”

  Because I’d been quiet for too long, all eyes turned toward me. I wasn’t laughing. I was busy counting Kate Moss’s eyelashes.

  “Twenty-four … twenty-five,” I said, and waved them off.

  Kristin went back to the magazine in her hand. “And no matter what Tara does, she’ll do it more than once.”

  Anna and Kristin shrugged. My friends tried to ignore my quirks, since they didn’t have a clue what to do about them. It didn’t seem hard on them, though. They were already trained to ignore their parents’ alcohol abuse, constant bickering, serial marriages and nonsensical advice.

  8

  Stalking My Parents

  Trying to control my thoughts, my worries, my prayers and my counting was exhausting. It was like paying attention to a dozen things at once. I was tired all the time. As a result, I got more anxious. I prayed more nervously. I counted with a vengeance.

  My parents fought about me all the time. Although they both wanted to help, they didn’t know how, or even what was wrong with me. They got increasingly frustrated. They blamed each other by taking turns initiating and ending the following dialogue:

  “We should do something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As time passed, they released their anxiety by fighting about money, movies, friends, the news. I think they eventually got bored arguing with each other, because after a few months they both started to look for reasons to not be at home.

  My father turned his care, nurturing and attention toward the American Legion. He’d been a member for years, but it wasn’t until he felt the need to “do something” that he turned the Legion headquarters from a decaying money pit into a community center filled with life, laughter and piles of cash.

  I hated the Legion. I hated having him gone all the time. I hated feeling as if I had to compete with that stupid building and those stupid events for his attention. But I liked going there with him. And I really liked leaving with him. Because after we’d washed all the glasses, my dad would carefully lock the Legion doors and take me to lunch at the Cavaccios’ beef stand. We’d order beef/sausage combos, dipped in gravy with hot gardiniera, sweet peppers and lots of salt. Then, standing side by side, gravy running down our arms and the comfort of spicy meat in our mouths, we felt a wave of peace that no amount of conversation could bring. It was comfort, jump-started by smelling, chewing and just being together. It lasted about fifteen minutes, every week. Our happiest times together.

  During this same period, my mother took a part-time job as a saleswoman in a department store. An odd choice for a woman who wasn’t particularly interested in fashion, but maybe that showed how desperately she wanted to get out of the house. Afterward, however, when the store was closed and locked for the night, instead of coming home to my sister and me, she’d go to the American Legion to meet my dad and socialize for an hour or so. I continually visualized my mother and father in terrible car accidents or being mugged and killed. I could see them lying in pools of their own blood and was terrified every moment they were gone.

  To keep them safe, I developed a new ritual and performed it until my anxiety subsided. It wasn’t planned. Like the others, it just popped into my head and stuck there. Unfortunately, it was a very odd, obvious and humiliating one.

  Aching with embarrassment, I dialed the telephone. The phone rang and rang and rang. I considered the rings a personal rejection. Pick up! Pick up! Finally, on the ninth ring, a voice I knew barked into the receiver.

  “Legion!”

  “Hi, Mr. Spivac. Um, this is Martin’s daughter Tara. Can you page either my father or my mother?”

  “Sulliivaaann! Your stalker is calling again!” Actually, he pronounced it STAW-ker. I waited for what seemed like forever, hating Mr. Spivac and listening to the rest of my father’s friends laughing at me in the background. Finally I heard my father’s irritated voice.

  “What now, Tara?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come home.”

  “I already told you I’d be home later on.”

  “When exactly?”

  This went on and on, sometimes four calls in two hours. Both of my parents were patient. But they were mostly glad to be out of the house. No matter how many times I called, I hung up with a lump in my throat and walked down the hallway to my parents’ room. I said a prayer to the Virgin Mary plaque that my dad kept on his dresser.

  Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to Thy protection, implored Thy help,and sought Thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto Thee, O Virgin of Virgins, my Mother! To Thee I come; before Thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word incarnate! Despise not my petitions, but, in Thy mercy, hear and answer me. Amen.

  I’d say it five times. Every word perfectly pronounced. Then I’d carefully set the prayer plaque back on the dresser, walk back down the hallway to the kitchen and stand directly in front of the clock on the stove. Directly in front of it. And read the time. From there I’d walk to the living room and stand directly in front of another clock. Directly in front of it, and read the time. Then I headed for the front door.

  First I’d turn the doorknob carefully with all ten fingers … equal pressure on each one. Then I’d walk down the front steps, across the lawn and into the middle—the very middle—of the street. Sometimes it’d take me a while to make sure I was exactly in the middle. Then, when I was satisfied that I was balanced, I’d look both ways twice. Left and then right and then right and then left. Then I’d go back inside. If I was still nervous, I’d
start over. Prayer, clock, clock, street. If anyone interrupted me, a neighbor, my sister, a car, I was enraged, because I’d have to start over.

  That inner rage was always a surprise and scared me the most. I didn’t know I had it in me, and only saw it when I was being thwarted from completing a ritual. Part of it was the frustration of having to do the ritual again, but there was more that I couldn’t justify as annoyance. One night even the ritual couldn’t help, and in a state of anxiety, I woke up my sister.

  “They’re not home yet!”

  “Huh?” she said sleepily.

  “Mom and Dad. They’re not home yet!”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Then go to sleep.”

  “I can’t! They’re not home yet!”

  “So?”

  She didn’t understand. “Can I sleep with you?” I whined.

  “If you have to.”

  I had to. Just like I had to count the cracks and say the prayers and look at the clocks from just the right angles and stand in the street looking both ways so that I was even. I had to. But it didn’t help.

  Lying next to my sister’s little body and listening to the regular rhythm of her breathing, I felt fear rush through my veins like hot snakes. Why couldn’t I be like her? Why was she sleeping peacefully when I was in agony? She was probably dreaming of something beautiful. I was picturing our parents dead. I could see the policeman and social workers coming to tell us. I saw myself fall apart.

  Greta felt my anxiety. “It’s okay,” she whispered. But it wasn’t. Waiting was agony. I felt as if my skin was on too tight. Then the urge overtook me.

  “I’ll be back,” I whispered.

  I dialed the number and asked Mr. Spivac to page my mother.

  “But when are you coming home?” I whined.

  “Schoon, honey. Schoon. Go to bed.”

  “Are you drunk!” I demanded.

  “A little,” she admitted with a giggle.

  I was furious. “I can’t go to bed!”

  “Right. Well, honey, shouldn’t you be usching this time to smoke cigarettes, have boys over, be bad for once?”

  “Can I talk to Daddy?”

  “No.”

  “Can I call you back in a half hour if you’re not home yet?”

  A long pause. Finally, “If you want to.”

  “I don’t want to! I have to!” I shouted. I hung up and headed for my parents’ room. I cried lightly while saying my prayers to the Virgin Mary, checking the clock and touching the doorknob. Actually, it was more like whimpering while checking the clock and touching the doorknob.

  When I stood in the middle of the street I saw Mrs. McQuade looking out her window at me. I was vexed beyond belief. Didn’t she have a life?

  I continued with my ritual, ignoring her as best I could. But I felt her watching me. She knew this wasn’t normal behavior. I knew she knew. She knew I knew. I didn’t want her to tell my parents. So far, they didn’t know about this quirk. Now I wouldn’t be able to spare them this either.

  My heart was pounding with shame and fear. My chest started to hurt. I wondered if it was my lungs that were the trouble all along. Panting with anxiety, I ran into my sister’s bedroom again.

  “Wake up!”

  “What’s wrong now?” she asked. Her sleepiness was dulling the irritation in her voice.

  “Mom and Dad are still not home!” I was exploding with emotion.

  “So?”

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “So?”

  “I’m—I’m worried!”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Yes!” I said. “I’m panting.”

  “That’s because you’re running another one of your midnight Cinderella marathons.”

  “So?”

  “You’re not sick.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Come here. Go to sleep.” I can’t!

  “Then get out of here and leave me alone.”

  She was maddening. I turned on the bedroom light and sat on her bed.

  “Shut that light off.”

  I ignored her command.

  She squinted at me. “Maybe you are nuts.”

  “It sure looks that way,” I admitted.

  “Just go to sleep.”

  “I can’t! Not until they get home. Do you think they’re all right?”

  “They’re a lot more all right than you’re going to be if you don’t get out of here!” Greta staggered out of bed and looked at me menacingly. “I’m getting really sick of this, Tara. We all are. Now shut off that light and get out … okay?”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry too. But get out now.”

  I did. And then I did my ritual five more times. All of it. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Until I saw their car turning the corner onto our street. Then I ducked back into the house and lay in my bed, pretending to be asleep. Pretending to be normal. Scared to death because I wasn’t either. Knowing they knew it too. The phone screamed like a siren. It’s never good news when the phone rings late at night.

  “Hello.” My mother’s voice sounded tired. “She did what in the middle of the schtreet … street? Tonight? Hmmm.”

  I was sent to another psychiatrist for an evaluation—a woman whose teeth were so badly capped that she was storing her last Cobb salad between them. She was very casual, and I don’t just mean about flossing. Her desk was untidy, and when I looked closely I could see tiny flaws or rips in her clothes. I suspected she bought them that way at a discount, and I doubted her hygiene was up to par.

  “How would you describe yourself, Tara?”

  I looked from the spinach in her teeth to an ashtray overflowing with paper clips. “Neat. I’m neat.”

  I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my right index finger. Then I did it again … and again. I felt odd, out of balance. As if I might tip over. So I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my left index finger to balance it out. I realized instantly that even if you balance yourself that way, one side always starts first. So one side always starts second. Therefore, you can never really achieve perfect proportions unless you tap at the same time with equal pressure every time. I thought about walking. Did I always start with my right foot? Did I always raise my right hand? If I did, I wondered whether my left side would wither and come to look like a big beige raisin with eczema.

  “Neat as in special or cool?” the shrink asked.

  “No. Neat as in orderly. I like things to be neat. Really neat. Actually, really, really neat.” I couldn’t help looking at a pile of messy papers on the floor behind her for emphasis.

  “You mean like tabletops and counters and floors?”

  “No. I mean like eyelashes, flower petals and even rice.”

  “I think we’ve got a lot of work to do, you and me,” she said, in such a controlled monotone I wondered which one of us was odder.

  Diagnosis: Attention Deficit Disorder. Immaturity.

  9

  Scared of Being

  By winter of seventh grade, my friends were sick of ignoring my quirks and started ignoring me. I couldn’t blame them. I was so wrapped up in myself that I hadn’t been much of a friend to them. Kristin was busy being hospitalized for anorexia, where she was actually scouted by a modeling agent and signed right there in her hospital room.

  When Keesha heard that, she gave up all hope of ever liking Kristin, or fashion magazines, ever again. Even I didn’t have much hope for Kristin’s future, though I was sure she’d be rich and famous and happy to be getting a lot of attention for a while.

  Anna was playing on a volleyball team that took up all her time. And even though Keesha and I still ate lunch together, it wasn’t fun anymore. We missed our old selves. We missed Kristin. And we really missed Anna, who now ate lunch with Wendy, the volleyball captain who hated me. I c
ouldn’t help feeling betrayed by a weird fate. And sad. Also, it was a really cold, snowy winter and most of the cracks in the sidewalk were covered, which was not impossible, but irritating, to deal with.

  Sometimes I’d just count a crack that was covered because I remembered it was there. And then I’d be plagued by doubt. Sometimes I’d have to kick the snow away to be sure. I hated people who didn’t shovel their sidewalks.

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred, a hundred and one, a hundred and two …”

  “Hey, Tara!”

  “A hundred and three, a hundred and four …”

  “Tara! Wait up!”

  It was Keesha. “A hundred and five, a hundred and six …” Despite the intense cold, I was sweating.

  “Tara!” Her voice didn’t sound mocking this time. She sounded angry.

  I got angry too. It felt as if my body fluids were starting to boil. I silently begged God to make her go away. “A hundred and seven, a hundred and eight …”

  “Taarraa!” She was definitely pissed.

  Beads of boiling sweat were snowplowing down my back. “A hundred and nine, a hundred and ten …”

  “Taaarrraaa!”

  She was as stubborn as I was possessed. “A hundred and eleven, a hundred and twelve, a hundred and thirteen, a hundred and fourteen, a hundred and fifteen …”

  “Ta—”

  “What!” My response was furious. I was furious. My heart was beating so fast and so loud that I instinctively grabbed at my chest as I looked up to see my friend Keesha standing before me, frowning.

  “Girrll, we are so sick of you!”

  “Go away!”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Please leave me alone, Keesha!” I was amazed at how much I was hating my old friend.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why, Keesha? Why can’t you just leave me alone! Huh?”

  Keesha looked at me for a long time. “I did leave you alone. We all did. But you didn’t get better. You didn’t stop. You’re still doin’ all your weird shit. And I think it’s time to stop.”

  “You think it’s time to stop!” I exploded, and lunged at her with my hands outstretched. I pushed her real hard. She almost fell down. “I don’t care what time you think it is!” I screamed. “Do you think I want to do this! Do you think I like it?”